


as we lay

by thoseguitarists



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Marriage, Multi, Narry - Freeform, Smut, Smut and Fluff, So much angst, and harry's wife is sweet, but the kids are precious, harry has babies ooooooooo, lying, this is between the sheets on drugs tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-10 21:16:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12920409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoseguitarists/pseuds/thoseguitarists
Summary: "This has gone on for so long," Harry says, mostly to himself, and he feels Niall's naked body pressed against him, half asleep and half awake, in that gorgeous dreamland of nirvana, and it reminds him of the gold band he's wearing on his finger, the one that he allowed to be put there as his promise to the woman he's married to. He hopes she never finds out how many times he's broken that raw plea of love she bestowed upon him on that day in December. He isn't sure if he could handle the disasters that would wreck everybody's worlds. "It's starting to feel less like I'm cheating on her and more like I'm cheating on you."Or, Harry and Niall begin a tentative affair at the start of the summer when they find that their own relationships are lacking. They soon find out that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.





	1. one | harry

**Author's Note:**

> Think Between the Sheets but worse (the angst and grammatical mistakes will haunt you just like they haunt me).

The sun is hot and heavy above Harry, beating down on his bare back as he shields Ellison and Rhiannon from the glare, and it’s a chore, you know, because Ellison is a rambunctious little three year old who likes to grab at everything he can with his fists and Rhiannon is calm, cool, collected, just a few moments older than Ellison, as he tries to help keep his brother in line and be on his best behavior so he can get ice cream after this spur of the moment outing Harry decided to take out of nowhere.  

(He probably should have thought this through, but he’s never been known for his habit of thinking ahead; he prefers to live in the moment, and sometimes that moment is a little… wild, for lack of a better word.)

“Daddy, that _hurts_!” Ellison complains as Harry gathers his son’s long, curly red-brown hair in a loose single strand that he begins to separate into three parts, making them as equal as he can ― he’s better at buns, used to be able to tie his long hair up quicker than his wife when it had reached his mid back, but he isn’t too bad at braids, either, and Ellison seems to prefer those more than Rhiannon, who likes pigtails. That, Harry has no problem doing, if you can overlook the occasional lopsided tail. “You’re gon’ make me _bald_!”

Harry chuckles. “I most certainly am not,” he replies, a tad miffed at his son’s whining, and he tugs on Ellison’s hair a bit, just a bit, to pester him as he begins to comb the ugly snarls out. “You’ve got more hair than me, Ellie. You aren’t going to go bald any time soon, I promise.”

“Do me next, Daddy!” Rhiannon squeals and tugs at the hem of Harry’s yellow swim trunks; the people around them are loud but he’s able to be louder, unsurprisingly, and Harry grins, nods his head. “I want pigtails!”

“Okay, Rhi. Be patient for me, yeah? Your brother’s got a lot of knots that need to be brushed out before I braid his hair, okay?”

“It’s ‘cause he didn’t b’ush his hair this morning when you told him to!”

“Oh yeah? Well, you were givin’ Chief bites o’ your bacon under the table this mornin’ when Daddy told you not to!”

“Boys.” Harry shakes his head; it’s hard to remember life before it was so, so loud, when it was quiet and Harry could think without being interrupted by sticky fingers tugging at his legs. He doesn’t miss the quiet. “Are you two just going to tattle on one another for the rest of the day and not enjoy the pool?”

Harry kind of tunes them out after that as they argue back and forth a bit, having decided to not listen to a word he said ― and no, that doesn’t make him a bad father; he’s a stay-at-home dad, for the most part, whenever they don’t need his help at the shop, and that’s usually only on weekends when Gemma’s off and can babysit for a bit, and sometimes even someone as gentle and kind as him can get annoyed with the constant bickering of the twins ― and looks around, listens a bit, tries to take as much of it in as he can.

It’s late May, and the heat’s not let up since the beginning of the month; all the forecasts throughout the winter have been promising a hot, humid summer, and so far they have all been correct, much to Harry’s utter and total joy. And in honor of such a hot summer, Harry thought it would be great to gather up the boys and plaster sunscreen all over their bodies and bring them to the town’s only public pool on its opening day as a celebration ― which, in hindsight, wasn’t really a smart idea on his part since everyone seemed to have the same idea as him. There are so, so, so many people all over and they’re loud, as well.

The pool is big, somewhat; it’s got a shallow end that gradually turns deeper and deeper and deeper, with a diving board on either side and two slides mounted next to one another, one red and one blue, and there’s a toddler’s wading area several yards out (Ellison and Rhiannon think they are “much too big to be playing with the li’l kids, Daddy”, but Harry’s sure the two boys will wind up over there in no time because the slide looks fun and the sprinklers look inviting and honestly, if Harry wasn’t such a big and awkward mass of gangly limbs he would probably attempt to slide down the thing with his sons in his lap).

It’s a nice day, though. It’s Saturday, a bit after noon, nearly one, and the sun is high and hot and the food from the little concession just inside the small hut smells good, smells unhealthy and delicious, and even though Harry’s got the makings of a massive headache at the top of his neck, one that’s been there for days and never truly gone away, he’s going to make the best of today and make sure it’s something that his boys enjoy, even if they don’t remember it when they’re his age.

He just wishes Brooks was here. She’s always working, it seems ― and yeah, Harry gets where being an in-demand lawyer would take up a lot of your time and warrant a few overtime hours, but even the most sought-after people can afford to take a couple of days off work here and there to spend time with family, to relax, to catch up on some much needed weeks away from the office.

And he hates to think of it ― like, _really_ hates to think of it ― but… she’s missing out. She really is. On a lot. Especially with Ellison and Rhiannon, who will both be four in October and starting school the following August. Harry tries his best to make up for her absence, tries his best to incorporate her lacking presence in their everyday lives ― and he’s doing a good job, he really is; better than was expected of him, apparently, by his (un)gracious in-laws, a couple he didn’t like when he was eighteen and still doesn’t like now that he’s twenty-three ― but pretending isn’t going to suffice for much longer. Photos and phone calls only go so far, and he isn’t sure how much longer this steady pace is going to last before everything starts to fall apart.

He hopes she considers taking that vacation in July he brought up to her last night, a bit after midnight; it’ll do her good, him good, and his sister already said Ellison and Rhiannon can stay with her while they’re gone. Gemma loves the two little boys almost as much as Harry does, and he knows they’ll be in good hands with her.

“You look like you’re deep in thought,” a familiar voice says above Harry and he’s jerked from his thoughts, looks up to see that Connor Hemmingway is standing over him with a big grin on his face and a towel wrapped around his lower half as droplets of water drag along his bare, toned torso. “It’s summer, you know. You aren’t supposed to be worrying yourself into a head full of gray hair ― you’re supposed to be living it up, man.”

Harry shakes his head in pleased disbelief and smiles as he scoots Ellison over and reaches for Rhiannon to start his pigtails as Connor plops down next to him; Harry’s known Connor since high school, since the two of them were the leading scorers on the varsity football team and carried the program to three straight state championships. Connor was the quarterback and Harry was his most trusted, most liked receiver; the two became friends, fast friends, and Harry reckons that part of that is because they were the only two open bisexuals in the entire school. They’ve stayed in touch since graduation five years ago and while Harry stayed local, opting to work odd jobs here and there while attempting to publish his own novels with a bit of luck, a few unbelievable deals that have saved his ass more than once, Connor took off and was recruited by a Division I university and then drafted; he played for a year, injured his leg in a way that has kept him permanently benched so far, and hasn’t been able to return, but he is taking classes up north in order to become a physical therapist.

Or, at least, that’s what the last Facebook post that Harry read weeks ago said. And liked, too, because he’s nothing if not a supportive and attentive friend.

“When did you get back from New York?” Harry asks as he gently, easily runs his fingers through Rhiannon’s hair; it’s not as knotted as Ellison’s, thankfully, and decidedly less curly, as well, more wavy like Brooks was when she was a young girl, and Harry finds it easy to separate his son’s long red-brown hair, a shade darker than Ellison’s, into two equal sections for his favored pigtails. He’s even got orange pony tails, too ― Rhiannon’s favorite color this week, though Lord knows that’ll change just as quickly as it was chosen. “Your mum didn’t say anything about you heading back at church Wednesday.”

Connor scoffs and rolls his eyes; he and his mother haven’t always had the best relationship with each other since he came out to her at fifteen, with only the support of Harry and a few other players on the team, but Harry thought the two were working on it since she was diagnosed with breast cancer back in February.

“It was a surprise, actually,” he replies, leaning back on his elbows as he stares at the splashing occupants in the pool; he’s tone and tan, all sinewy muscle and lean mass of man. He’s outgrown his prettiness of boyhood and blossomed into a handsome man with black hair, with dark skin, with even darker eyes. “Dad knew, and Mom’s birthday is this coming Friday, and I just thought I’d keep it a surprise from her.”

“That’s sweet of you.”

“Eh. She nearly bashed my head in with a baseball bat when she heard me coming in last night.” Connor shakes his head and Harry throws his back, laughing like a little kid, like his son’s do when they find something particularly hilarious. Harry smiles softly; there’s something about having children that makes you so, so, so _tender_ and Harry wouldn’t trade his children for the whole world; he would choose this life every time even if the world was offered to him. “I swear to God, that woman is never going to fuckin’ calm down no matter how old she gets.”

“Hey,” Harry says, kind of draws out the word; he’s almost done with Rhiannon’s pigtails, and then all he has to do is stick floaties on both of the boys’ arms and they ought to be good to go ― into the shallow, wading end, that is. Because they can’t swim just yet, even though they think goofing off in the big bathtub upstairs counts as practice. “Watch what you say ‘round the boys, ‘kay? Brooks would have my hide if she heard them saying anything worse than ‘dang’ and I’d rather not sleep on the couch any more than I have to. I’ve got a bad back.”

“You’re only twenty-three.”

“What’s your point?”

“There’s many, my old friend.”

“Oh, do tell.”  

Connor chuckles, but he doesn’t tell because he doesn’t have anything to tell. “Mayla’s here, you know, somewhere in the pool,” he announces, and that’s his twelve-year-old niece; she’s in Sunday school with the boys and loves, loves, loves (bossing) them around, but she means well. And Harry likes her, trusts her well enough. She isn’t like the few preteens he’s encountered ever since graduating. “I bet she’d love to take these little heathens off your hands for a while.”

As if on queue ― she’s weird like that ― Mayla is standing in front of Harry and Connor and Ellison and Rhiannon. She’s tall for her age, a bit chubby; her skin is dark from her father, dark from the sun, and her frizzy hair is pulled back in a tight knot at the base of her neck. She’s smiling big, showing off her crooked teeth, and it doesn’t take long at all for both Ellison and Rhiannon to jump up once they realize who it is that’s standing before them. They tug on their floaties in a rush and head off after Mayla.

Harry sighs. “Oh.”

It doesn’t bother him. It really doesn’t. It really, really doesn’t bother him at all.

(Only, it does. It really, really does. And he doesn’t know why ― he doesn’t even know what it is that’s bothering him, either. But it is ― he knows that, for sure. For damn sure. And he doesn’t like the way it leaves a heavy, lonesome feeling in his gut.)

“She gets lonely, I think,” Connor announces after a moment, and Harry looks at him out of the corner of his eye; he’s so handsome, and Harry still kicks himself in the ass sometimes for overlooking what could have been, but then that would mean he wouldn’t have Brooks or the twins. Maybe unanswered prayers are a good thing. “It’s only her, you know, and Jackson swore he wasn’t going to have any more children after what Alicia did to him.”

Harry swallows. “I hope he changes his mind one day and realizes that not every woman is going to act the same way she did,” he says, and he says it so softly, too; Alicia is a touchy subject with Connor just as much as it is his older brother Jackson, and Harry isn’t in any mood to bring up the turmoil of sophomore year in high school all over again. That’s a storm of shit that he would rather not revisit at this moment, or any time soon. “He’s such a great father, and he deserves to have happiness.”

“I’ll tell him you said that.” Connor hums, quietly. “How’s Brooks? It feels like forever since I’ve talked to the Queen B.”

“It _has_ been forever.” Almost a year, but it isn’t like Harry’s counting ― he’s only counting down the days till Brooks finally, finally takes the break from work that he’s so desperately wishing she would.

“Touché.”

_Only a little bit._

“She’s good,” Harry answers, furrows his brows a little bit as he squints into the sun and watches as Mayla leads Ellison and Rhiannon into the shallow end of the long, wide pool; she’s careful and easy, has sandwiched herself between the two toddlers and is gripping one of their hands in both of hers, and they’re minding her, being good and listening, and Harry reckons he owes them a treat later his afternoon for their behavior. “She’s working a lot.”

Connor sighs, brings his legs up to his chest and lays his chin on his knees. “She hasn’t changed, then, has she?”

Harry shrugs. “She has.” She’s gotten older, gotten more mature; she can cook more than instant noodles and knows how to check her own oil, change her own tires. She’s gotten thicker, rounder ― having children, two at a time, flattered her figure and made her full, and she looks good, looks great, looks happy and soft and healthy and plumper than she would have dared reach in high school, when she was a senior and Harry was a freshman who admired her from afar. Very far. He loves the way she looks ― when he sees her, that is. And, Lord, when she’s not wearing anything at all? It’s heaven. “It’s ― it’s like, I’ve been around her. I’ve grown up with her. She’s changed, but it didn’t all happen at once. It was gradual. And it isn’t something you notice happening. You just… notice it. Eventually.”

“I can’t believe you’re still madly in love with her at twenty-three as you were at fifteen.”

Harry hears the unspoken admittance in his tone: “That’s the kind of love I wish I could find.”

(Harry doesn’t tell him that it isn’t all pretty colors and laughter. It’s hard work, grueling in an entirely different category than two-a-days, than three-a-days were ― sometimes he goes to bed angry and wakes up sad, and sometimes he goes to bed happy and wakes up lonely; it’s a lot of give and take, and give and give and give and take and take and take. Sometimes he feels depleted; other times, Brooks has bags under her eyes that even an entire week of nights full of sleep can’t fend off. It isn’t simple, but Harry doesn’t want it to be, and that’s one of the reasons he’s still as madly in love with Brooks now, at twenty-three, as he was then, at fifteen ― with every step up the mountain of life he’s walked, she’s been right beside him. And that’s what love is.)   

“Listen, Connor ―”

Abruptly, Harry hears the noise of somebody surfacing out of the pool right in front of him and he stops speaking, his eyes piquing to the familiar laughter of his children; he takes his eyes off of Connor’s, looks straight before him, and sees a young man, about his age or older, maybe, with both Ellison and Rhiannon on his back. His shoulders are broad and his hair is brown and his chest is hairy; his skin is pale and freckling, and his brows are sharp and his lashes are matted together and his lips are crooked in a smile, higher on one side than the other, and Harry’s kids are hanging on to the man’s biceps (which are rather nice, by the way, just about the same size as Harry’s) and laughing, cackling, and Mayla swims up behind the three and Harry blinks because he’s never seen eyes so blue, never seen the sun _do_ _that_ to somebody before.

(It’s only been Brooks ― it’s _always_ and _only_ been Brooks even when he thought it wasn’t.)

The man grins once his eyes ― they’re blue, so blue; the sky and oceans have nothing on the shade ― settle on Harry. “I take it these two hoodlums are your boys, yeah?” he asks, and his Irish accent is thick, thicker than Harry’s British accent, and a tingle runs down Harry’s back and settles at the bottom of his spine.

_Oh._

He opens his mouth to reply, to say that yes, of course those two goofy and too-trusting little boys are his, and he wants to ask who the man is, where it is that he’s from, but Connor cuts him off with a gentle laugh.

“Harry, this is my boyfriend. His name is Niall, and he’s going to be spending the summer with me here.”

And ― oh, a little thrum of energy begins to flutter in the pit of Harry’s stomach and he swallows, gulps so loud he’s sure the entire pool can hear it as it spreads to heat his chest and cheeks.

“Oh.”


	2. two | harry

When Harry gets home with Ellison and Rhiannon, it’s a little after six in the afternoon and the three of them are nursing a rather horrible sunburn that has them colored up like a small clan of lobsters as they waddle up the steps and through the door, into the foyer. He didn’t think to bring the sunscreen with him to reapply after a few hours spent in the water, and now he’s got two hungry, sticky-with-ice-cream boys who are complaining about how itchy the tops of their ears are and how painful the bottom of their backs are where their pants rub along the burn.

He reckons it’s going to be a long, long night.

The house he and Brooks bought a few years back, just a couple months before Ellison and Rhiannon were born with the settlement Harry received from his father’s death, is rather large and cozy and lengthy and comfortable: it’s two-story, wide and long, with six rooms upstairs and the main bedroom downstairs, at the back of the place, with a door leading out on the back porch and an adjourning bathroom; the porch is wraparound and the foyer branches off in either direction with the kitchen and dining room to the left and the living room and den the right. The stairway is directly ahead, and there are corridors on either side, leading to the pantry, the laundry room, the bathroom, and the master bedroom, as well as a few other miscellaneous rooms.

It’s big. And old, always smelling faintly of dust and history and ancient laughter. Roomy, too, with space to spare. If he and Brooks ever wish to expand the little family they’ve got right now, he reckons it won’t hurt or cause the feel of overcrowding any time soon. He likes this house, is ready to make it a home.

He flicks the lights on. “Now, boys ―” he begins, tries to begin, but they’ve already dropped their shoes by the door and took off to the back of the house, where there’s a little room full of everything they need to keep them busy before bedtime, and Harry sighs because he’s exhausted, he’s hungry, he’s confused, and he isn’t sure he has enough energy to reign in the boys.

Harry grunts, drops his shoulders, and notices that the house smells like collard greens and chicken. And peach cobbler. And the record player’s on. And he’s fairly sure he didn’t cook before he took the boys out this morning or leave the player on, either.

Confused, not wanting to hope (but wanting so, so badly to be right), he kicks off his shoes, puts them in the closet, and then makes his way left, toward the kitchen. Inside of the big space, he sees Brooks, and it’s a sight that hits him hard in the stomach because it’s been so long since he’s had the pleasure of seeing his wife in the kitchen, wearing nothing but one of his too-big shirts and a pair of shorts with her feet bare as she dances around to Anarbor while bopping her head and stirring the pots.

She’s gorgeous. She’s always been gorgeous, but now ― _now_ , she’s perfect. To him, at least. Her hair, long and cinnamon-colored and frizzy, is piled on her head in a lopsided bun; her face is clear of makeup and the neckline of her shirt, of Harry’s shirt, is falling off her shoulder and showing her collarbone, and her shorts are _short_ , so short, and her legs are long, thick, solid, a bit jiggly when she moves around, and her toenails are painted pink and fuck, he’s missed her, missed seeing her like this.

“Oh, baby.”

At his admittance, she turns from the stove; her face is pale and blotchy, and she’s got a smear of flour on her cheek, and she smiles so big when she sees him standing in the entryway of the kitchen that he’s afraid she’s going to stretch her cheeks out.

“Harry!” she says, squeals, and she sets the spoon down on a paper towel and runs toward him, throws her arms around his neck and puts her face in his chest and just squeezes and squeezes and squeezes. Harry puts one hand on her waist, puts the other at the nape of her neck and plunges his fingers into her soft hair. She smells like coconuts and green apples, and it’s a scent he wishes he can put in his pocket and take out when he’s missing her particularly awful to remind himself that she’s real even if she sometimes feels like a dream, a figment of his imagination. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

“I can say the same for you,” he replies, a bit breathless; it’s been weeks since he’s seen her before the sun went down, and he isn’t exactly sure how to respond to this situation. Should he be upset that this is the first time in weeks that he’s seen her before dark or over the moon with joy that ― that this is the first time he’s seen her before dark in weeks? “What are you doing here so early, Brooks?”

She says into his chest, holding on a little tighter than she was before, “They bullied me out and told me to take the weekend off.” She pulls back, just a bit, and looks up at him; she’s kind of short, quite a bit more than Harry, and at this angle her brown eyes look like they’re streaked with honey and dotted with gold. “Guess you’re stuck with me for the next three days.”

He laughs, low in his throat, and cups her face in his hands and holds her still; when he kisses her, he notices that his lips are chapped and that hers taste like cream and peaches. She opens her mouth for him, and it’s tongue on tongue and her hands move down to his chest, where she grips his shirt in her fingers and tugs him along with her.

Her back hits the island’s trim and he moves fast, puts his hands on her bum and lifts her; they’re the same height now and she wraps her legs around his waist as he slides his fingers up along her thighs, her stomach, to her breasts. They’re heavy in his hand, the left larger than the right, just a bit, and a shiver runs along the bottom of his spine as he feels himself melt completely into her softness.

Harry raises a brow as he pulls back to catch his breath. “You aren’t wearing a bra?” he asks, licking his lips and relishing her taste.

She grins. “It’s almost like I planned this or something, isn’t it?” she replies, teases, and Harry dives in once more, assured that the boys won’t know anything since they’re caught up in their playroom, probably watching cartoons and fiddling with their trainset that’s loud enough to block out whatever sounds Harry and Brooks are about to make with each other.

“Here?” he asks, mouths the word against her lips and hopes that she understands and _tastes_ the desperation on his tongue that’s making his lips quake, that’s making his knees weak.

“Yeah,” she says, breathless, and moans, shallowly, as Harry’s fingers dip beneath the hem of her shirt, his shirt, and into her shorts; she’s unshaven and soft, a little itchy, and Harry loves it because he can feel how slick she is before delving deeper and deeper, gathering a bit of her slickness and spreading it around till she’s soaked through and he can smell her, sour and sweet at the same time. “Oh, fuck, yes.”

They move fast after that; Harry keeps one hand in her panties and rubs her little hard nub while the other works her shorts off, and she keeps busy as she undoes the button, slides down the zip to his jeans, and shoves them and his underwear just below the curve of his ass. He laughs through his nose, pulls himself from her lips to look into her eyes, and when he curls a finger in her panties and pulls them to the side and pushes into her heat he’s looking into her eyes and she’s looking into his and she has this shattering smile on her face that makes Harry’s heart clench.

(He tries not to remember the man from the pool when he puts his face in her neck and begins rocking slowly, gently, steadily. He wants Brooks to fill him up completely, in every single way.)

Brooks orgasms first, only a few moments later ― Harry’s long since gotten over the slight discomfort of knowing that sometimes he isn’t enough to get her off and that his fingers, particularly the pad of his thumb, can work wonders if she’s a little behind ― and she clenches, hard, and pulls Harry in, doesn’t let him go, and he spills into her, ripples dancing across his spine like the waves left behind when rocks are thrown into the water, and he stays there, right where he is, and smiles, presses a kiss into her neck and breathes in her scent like he’s never going to get to experience it after this.

She hums and removes her legs from his waist, scoots in till she’s almost off the counter; they’re still connected, and Harry’s almost sure that neither are in too much of a hurry to detach. It feels so pleasurable and full of comfort to just, like, stay in this situation ― she’s warm and he’s softening and they’re both wet, both sticky and slightly sweaty, salty, afraid that Ellison or Rhiannon may catch them in this compromising position, and he reckons that a little romp in the shower before dinner isn’t out of the question for the two of them.

(As long as they keep the bedroom door unlocked, though, just in case something happens with the boys; Brooks has better hearing than Harry and Harry is quicker on his feet than her, can hop out of the shower and have at least his boxers on in under five seconds in case the twins come running in for whatever reason. He knows because he got bored one night and had Brooks time him, just for the hell of it.)

He’s happy, though. About that ― about the reluctance to become two instead of one, about the desperation to touch and stay touching. At this moment, right now, it feels like he’s just came back from a long journey and returned home ― and Brooks is his home and it doesn’t matter how attractive he finds strangers as they lift themselves out of the pool, water glistening on their chest as Harry’s two boys dance and squeal around him.  All that matters is Brooks, and her, and this ― _this_ : what they’ve been fighting for since he was eighteen and what they’re still going to be fighting for when he’s eighty. Because you don’t give up on a love like they’ve got once you know how it feels.

With a hiss, he slips out of her heat; the air’s cold on his prick and he hurries to put himself back in his britches and fix her panties. He’s nothing if not a gentleman, even after all these years.

She chuckles, face flushed and eyes vivid and bright, so bright. “I’ve missed you,” she says, and it’s a whisper that causes gooseflesh to spread all over Harry’s neck. He feels like it’s been so, so long since he was able to experience this type of intimacy with Brooks, and while it hasn’t been decades, like it feels, it’s been a month. Or two. And Harry doesn’t need sex to survive, to stay in a relationship, but it is ― nice to have. Sex, that is. He enjoys it ― clearly, seeing as he and Brooks went away on a short honeymoon and she came back pregnant. He’s of an opinion that it makes you closer with the person you’re in love with. “I’ve missed you so much, Harry.”

He kisses her then, easily and carefully; her lips are swollen, somewhat, and she tastes more like him than ever before. He loves it. And he loves her.

(And there’s no amount of handsome, scantily clad and wet men that can take his love for his wife away from him.)

“Shower?” he prompts against her lips, puts his hands on her sides; he helps her down from the counter and finds her shorts, helps her into the little things. He doesn’t understand why she still has them, remembers them from high school when she was coaching the little girl’s on the sidelines who wanted to be cheerleaders while he was on the field gathering win after win after win. “We can go for round two, if you’re up for it.”

Her smile starts off small and then gets bigger ― and bigger, and bigger, and bigger and bigger and bigger till she’s grinning at him, up at him, and Harry remembers the day they said they do, the day she wore white and he wore a suit and they were so happy to touch one another, finally, without the excessive scrutiny from the world that would label them as this or that. He remembers her smile, and the amount of liberation that slammed into him when he returned it right before he took his vows.

“You’re insatiable, Harry,” Brooks says, and she says it around giggles, the kind that little kids make when they find something rather hilarious. “If you keep this up, baby, we could be welcoming another little monster to the family before too long.”

Harry bites his lip to keep from smiling because ― because the thought of another child is something he hasn’t had any time to think of at the moment. He quite likes the idea.

“And that’s such a bad thing?”

Brooks scoffs and shakes her head, and she throws her arms around Harry’s neck and pulls him in and puts their mouths together and she’s soft and slow as she kisses him, licking his lips and touching his tongue.

“Take me to our room,” she whispers, and Harry hurries to gather her up in his arms, to turn the burners on low, before barreling down the corridor toward their room at the end of the house.

(And no, he still hasn’t got the image of Niall out of his mind, if you were wondering.)

-

The food is good. A bit overcooked because Harry got overzealous and refused to let loose of or take his mouth off Brooks while she was attempting to dress and rush into the kitchen to stir the food and turn off the burners, but only just a tad. It’s good, extremely better than it used to be when the two of them first married (and Harry only asked for a second helping then so it wouldn’t hurt her feelings).

It’s nice. All four of them, sat at the table that Brooks inherited from her grandmother when the woman passed a few years back. It’s scratched and sticky in some places where the test of time couldn’t measure up to the wear of a dozen children, and then three dozen grandchildren, but it has character and Harry reckons if it could talk, it would be able to tell the best stories.

Ellison and Rhiannon, apparently, were _starving_ ― both of them are attacking their plates, their second helping, and they don’t show any interest in slowing down; they’re chubby, sort of, but they’re active, too, and their pediatrician doesn’t ever see anything wrong with their love for food. Harry reckons he doesn’t need to worry about it if a professional isn’t.

Brooks is in front of him, right across ― Ellison and Rhiannon feel the need to both be sat at opposite heads of the table and Harry isn’t ever able to tell his little boys no ― and the two of them are playing footsie with each other as they eat, smiling into their plates. It’s just like when they were dating, after Harry graduated and she was going off to college, and they had to hurry and fit years into the three months of summer they had with each other before she left for good.

“Guess who’s back in town,” Harry says to Brooks; both Ellison and Rhiannon are in their own little worlds and he reckons it’s perfectly okay for the two of them to have a bit of “grown up” talk in front of the boys.

Brooks smiles, and she’s got a mischievous glint in her eye that’s mirrored by their children. “Connor.”

Harry grins. “How’d you know?” he asks, sits forward a bit. The three of them were acquainted well enough with one another in high school, and it isn’t taboo for Brooks to have kept in touch with the same people as Harry since the crowd they ran around with was more or less the same.

“I ran in to his mom at the grocery store this morning,” she answers, and she’s smiling, and she’s gorgeous, and Harry loves her. He really, truly does. “She told me he tried to surprise her, but that the surprise turned ugly when she went after him because she thought he was an intruder.”

“She’s a crazy lady.”

“Definitely.” Brooks nods. “She also invited us to her birthday party Sunday after church, if you’re interested in going. I told her you may not be able to come if they need your help at the shop, but she was pretty adamant about the both of us coming and bringing the boys. She has a soft spot for them.”

Harry smiles, gently. “I know. She’s always doted on them like they were her own grandchildren. And Mayla loves them, so that’s a plus. And a free babysitter, too.” He looks at his boys then, looks at the way their noses flare when they’re taking sips of their orange juice between pieces of chicken, and he feels his chest flare and he isn’t sure if he’ll ever be as proud of something as he is of them. “I’ll go. I think it’d be lovely to see her and Connor and everybody else all together again.”

(And no, he didn’t agree to go because of the very handsome, very attractive, very sexy boyfriend of Connor’s, either.)

“That’s great!” Brooks is giddy and cute, and she softly taps Harry’s thigh with her heel and he hopes that she never loses her smile. “I’m so glad you’re coming. It’ll be just like old times.”

Just like old times, sure, with an added bonus of a handsome Irishmen.

(Harry really needs to get himself under control. Things seem to be looking up between him and Brooks ― he doesn’t want to deter their progress by fiddling around with a handsome man he has no business gawking at in the first place.)


	3. three | niall

It’s late when Niall and Connor finally make it back to Connor’s parents’ place ― they were out, at a bar, having a few pints and watching some reruns of the NFLs greatest games through the decades and they were talking, oh, God, they were talking, about everything and anything and nothing at all, and time got away from them, vanished into thin air like the smoke rings that curled up from the bartender’s cigarette as he continued to refill their drinks with whatever it is they were hollering for at the moment ― and Niall’s exhausted, heavy with the faint smell of chorine on his body from the pool as well as they stench of pub on his skin and he’s ready to collapse in bed and sleep till morning.

(Of course, they’re accompanying Connor’s mother and father to church in the morning; how appropriate, in Niall’s opinion, that they act like the devil’s heathens the night before they’re to uphold the meaning of the Sabbath. Clearly all is aligned in the world.)

They’re quiet as they sneak in, holding the door in just the right place to make sure it doesn’t squeak, and once both of them are through they shut it, lock it, flick off the porch light and shush each other from their giggling and laughing. The stairs are a bit trickier to master, but Connor knows where to step to avoid any creaking and Niall follows along after him in his footsteps, so close he can smell the musk of Connor’s skin.

He’s horny, half-hard and interested. In something. Has been ever since the pool, when he lifted himself up out of the water with two adorable, vivacious twin boys on either side of him and their father looked at him, looked at him _like that_ , in a way Niall’s never known before. He saw the man’s eyes widen, and he saw the level of control and self-awareness that it took for him to tear his eyes off of Niall.

And, really, he knows because he feels the same way.

(It isn’t very proper to be staring at another man while you’re boyfriend is right in front of you, by the way.)

Niall’s heard about him ― heard about the infamous Harry Styles, the only friend Connor truly talks about when he’s asked for tidbits from his past. Would probably know the man even without being Connor’s boyfriend, too, because he’s published a few books here and there and they’re rather good, well-written with interesting plot twists and characters that come to life and form to your everyday living and make you wonder if you could do the same thing as them if it were you faced with the difficult decisions.

But he likes Connor’s version of Harry Styles better than the elusive, mysterious author that he’s painted himself for the world to be.

He likes the stories Connor’s told ― the ones that only need be whispered in the dark of their room, about how one time Harry went home with a bloody nose because he got into a fight with a kid who was bullying a younger high schooler and how he took that same little kid to the homecoming dance a few months later.

He’s rather fond of the football stories, as well. Laughs like a little kid, throws his head back and chortles when Connor tells him about all of the ways he and Harry used to terrorize the new players by pranking them (nicely, too, because Harry was nothing if not an angel ― and Niall’s fairly sure that hasn’t changed any bit since high school if he is allowed to go off of the look in Harry’s eyes whenever they first caught sight of one another) and how he and Harry goofed around in class, battled on the field, fought and fought and fought to be recognized as what they truly, truly are: legends.

They’re legends. Heroes. The ones that are immortalized in glass fixtures in corridors at their high school showcasing their many impressive achievements, both on the field and off. They’re famous, if only in their hometown.

Niall sometimes wonders what his hometown would think of him if he would have chosen to stick around and take up his father’s offer of operating and owning the family farm with him.

And then he pushes that thought out of his mind because he spent eighteen years of his entire life dedicating it to people who didn’t appreciate all he did, and he remembers that his decision to leave was for him, and while he does occasionally feel a clench in his heart about everything that he left behind, all the memories and all the emotions, he isn’t sad about his choice.

He would never have gotten into university. He would have never graduated at the top of his class and went on to pursue his love for wildlife biology. He would have never met Connor.

“We’re so goin’ to wake up your mum and dad,” Niall whispers as he follows behind Connor ― or, tries to whisper, that is. He’s fairly sure he’s entirely louder than he should be, and really, it’s all Connor’s fault. He knows how Niall is when he gets a little tipsy, not unlike a bull in a china shop. “Your ma is gonna whoop my ass, Connor.”

Connor giggles, shoulders his way into his room and drags Niall inside, too, with a tight grip on his wrist; he shuts the door, locks the door, pushes Niall against the door, and then they’re kissing, harshly, and Niall feels bruises begin tenderizing his lips as he tries to keep up with the fast pace of Connor’s mouth on his, demanding and asking and pleasing all at once.

He likes Connor. Probably even loves Connor, which he would know if he ever had anything to compare what he feels for Connor to. He doesn’t. Life was weird, back in Ireland. He was a lonely kid, deprived of some of the essentials that all teenagers should and need to experience to be able to know their way in their adult life.

In fact, Connor was his first. Everything. Niall knew he was gay from a young age, never felt anything toward the opposite sex the same way his older brother did, and though his mother and father were pleasant to him if not accepting, he was advised to keep his sexual preferences to himself. The tiny village he’s from doesn’t take well to change, and he still remembers what happened to the young gay couple who thought they would settle in and make the place their home.

So he kept to himself a lot. Read a lot, wrote a lot, helped with the farm a lot. Walked, listened to music, sat in the forest at the back of the family property and built snowmen and risked major injuries just to get the perfect angle of a gorgeous scene that he wished to draw and keep them forever. He was smart, in school and out of, and everyone knew he was going to be given the opportunity to go off ― they just didn’t expect him to take it.

But he did. Take it, that is. And he left them all behind. And he doesn’t feel a goddamn bit of remorse for it, either.

He shoves Connor away, not unkindly, and keeps his hand pressed to Connor’s chest as he heaves breath in and out, in and out. “You’re wild tonight,” he muses, allowing the little grin at the corners of his mouth to reach across; he and Connor have a fairly active sex life, aren’t afraid to ask to or try new things with each other. And Niall knows from hours spent talking that one of Connor’s fantasies was to fuck in his childhood bed under the same roof of his parents. “Are you wanting to cross something in particular off your bucket list tonight?”

Connor grins, and he’s handsome, so handsome. His skin is dark, very dark, and his eyes aren’t many shades lighter, for that matter; his hair is cut close to his scalp and it’s soft, so soft, and Niall loves the way it feels on the tips of his fingers because it makes him laugh, makes him warm on the inside where he was so used to being so cold before he met Connor and he breathed a certain kind of life into Niall.

He owes Connor a lot. _A lot._ And Connor knows quite a bit about Niall, quite a bit about Niall’s past and why he is the way he is, but he doesn’t know everything, not yet. He isn’t sure if he’ll ever be able to tell Connor the entire story.

Connor bites his bottom lip; it’s wet with Niall’s saliva and the sight makes him hard, makes him throb.

(Kind of like the first sight of Harry hours before, when Niall was forced to stay in the pool beneath the water while he and Harry attempted to make small talk with one another. He couldn’t have half of the town seeing him with a hard on, now, could he?)

“If you’re up for it, Ni, I’m up for it, too.”

Niall licks his lips, grins a bit bigger than he was before; he moves one hand to the nape of Connor’s neck, tucks the other just inside of the waistband of Connor’s jeans. “I’ll let you fuck me,” he begins, leans in; he puts his lips right to Connor’s ear, is glad they’re only a few inches away from being the same height, “if you blow me first.”

And Niall isn’t sexy, probably won’t ever be sexy. He’s deprived, and desperate to please ― something that he hopes never to teach somebody; abusers can be nice, abusers can be kind, and he doesn’t want to chase after anybody made out of the same mantle as his brother, as the people he grew up with it ― and he’s raw and honest, but he isn’t bare. He’s never bare. He’s got a wall, a thick and long and tall wall, curling around his heart, and it’s going to be a hell of a long time before Connor can break his way inside of it.

Connor moans ― moans, and Niall’s body shudders as Connor leans in and puts his mouth on Niall’s neck, kissing and suckling and nipping and sucking. “That sounds like an amazing plan, baby,” he whispers into the heat of Niall’s skin, and Niall puts a hand on his head, on the very top, and pushes him down while his other starts working on the button and zip of his own jeans, and as Connor descends down his body, dragging his teeth along Niall’s chest through the thin material of his black t-shirt, all he can think about is how it would feel if it were Harry Styles doing this to him instead.

-

Niall’s favorite story of Harry, though, as told by Connor, is how he fell in love with his wife the very first moment he laid eyes on her when he was fourteen and hardly on the cusp of puberty. He likes the way Connor talks about how Harry’s eyes widened, how Harry’s mouth parted, how Harry’s body fluttered with some sort of thrumming excitement that reminds you of electricity and fireworks and the tension in the air that causes the hair on your arms to stand on end.

Niall’s favorite story is the story of how Harry fell in love with his wife because ― because that’s _love_ , the raw kind that’s written about in literature years later because, even in death, it’s still a palpable touch on your skin, whisper in your ear, taste on your tongue.

Niall thinks it would be an honor to have somebody like Harry Styles fall in love with him, and he lies awake well into the night, long after he and Connor have had their fill of one another, just thinking. About life, about it all ― everything he never got to have, everything that he never wanted to have, everything that he’ll always want to have.

(And the sad thing is that he knows it’ll never happen for him.)

-

Waking up and attending church the next morning is an absolutely grand affair.

The town is rather large, nestled comfortably between two larger cities, lakes on one side and forests on the other; it’s many, many miles larger in circumference than Niall’s village back in Ireland, and there’s plenty of people. Not as many as there are in New York City, of course, but enough, and they’re nice, too. Pleasant, entirely more so than any other place Niall’s ever been in.

Connor says it’s because everybody knows everybody, says it’s because everybody who’s born here never leaves. Says people come, and they don’t ever leave, either, and that it’s all a big conglomeration of epic proportions.

Niall likes it. It’s faster paced than the village but slower, slower than the city. It smells better, too, and the skies aren’t as foggy with smog nor are the streets as crowded as the city, either. He likes that. Reminds him of the town he left behind, but… but better.

They sit in the middle, in a pew that’s been worn down over the years. The church is large and the chapel smells like dust and sweet, sweet perfume. Windows rise on either side, stained with scenes depicted from the Bible, with a sun roof above, and on the backs of the pews are little shelves holding enough books of music for people to cheat off of while they sing during worship. The lights are kept off ― it’s nearly summer, of course, and the sunlight filtering in through the windows, stained as they may be, as well as the sun roof, give off enough light ― and the ceiling fans above, paired with the air conditioning unit, aren’t doing well enough in keeping the chapel cool, so women are fanning themselves with the Sunday morning papers and men have undone a few of their buttons.

It feels… peaceful, though. And accepting. Niall saw the flashing sign outside, positioned near the road for all to see, a beacon for the lost and hopeless; it read ‘Welcome’, and though the official month of pride isn’t until next, in June, each letter was represented by one color of the rainbow and for Niall, coming from a village where a man being in love with another man is a shame, it means a lot for him to know that the world, as horrible and neglectful as it may be, is slowly, slowly opening its mind to more.

“It’s hot in here,” Niall whispers, hoping that Connor’s mother, sat on the other side of her son, won’t hear him. The outfit he’s wearing is practical ― or, well, he thought so, at least. It’s the south, Louisiana, and so he decided on a pair of elegant blue jeans and clean boots and a solid-patterned black button down ― something that wouldn’t make him stand out as much as his harsh accent ― and he’s regretting it terribly.

Connor knocks his knee into Niall’s. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it and realize that black clothing isn’t your friend,” he replies in a hushed whisper; the preacher, having made an entrance, isn’t quite finished greeting as many people as he can, but Niall reckons it’s quite disrespectful to be very much louder than a breath. “This is the south, babe. And we’re in Louisiana. You’ll learn.”

Niall grunts, discreetly pinches Connor’s side to let him know that he most certainly isn’t funny, and he opens his mouth to say something but then somebody else is talking, asking him a question, and he feels the temperature in the church rise at least thirty degrees.

“May we sit here?”

Niall swallows, shallowly, and turns, looks up because he’s sat and the man is standing; it’s Harry, and he’s wearing tight black jeans, a tight white shirt, and his hair is slicked down, and he’s got on glasses, thick-rimmed and black, the kind that Niall’s mam used to wear when she was reading, and he smells like pine needles and green apples and before Niall can say a word Connor is leaning up and speaking for him with the biggest grin on his face.

“Of course you can. Have a seat, man.”

Harry smiles, takes his eyes off of Niall ― were they both staring at each other, mutually, or was Niall imagining the fierce look he saw in Harry’s eyes? ― and says to Connor, a bit breathlessly, “Thanks.”

He sits, right beside Niall. Their legs are touching, thigh to thigh and knee to knee. And Harry’s body is hotter than the air in the room and Niall thinks that he might just catch on fire this very second if he isn’t careful ― and he isn’t sure what it is that he should be wary of.

The two little twin boys come bounding down the aisle between the pews, and when they spot their dad they veer toward him; they’re dressed similar, in matching outfits but differing colors, and Niall only knows which twin is which because of the way their long, curly hair is fixed.

A woman is trailing behind them, and Niall can’t take his eyes off of her. Her hair is down in soft-looking waves and her face is clear of makeup, a bit blotchy and red in certain places; her body is thick and heavy, and her chest is rather large. The dress she has on ― it’s modest, Niall thinks, with an innocent neckline and lengthy skirt that falls to just above her knees; it’s white and yellow, patterned with wildflowers, and it makes her shine ― hugs her body just right, just perfectly, and the smile on her mouth when she spots Connor, spots Niall, spots Harry, makes Niall’s heart pound greatly in his chest.

This is ― this is Brooks. _Brooks_ , Harry’s wife. And she’s gorgeous, thick and broad and soft-looking, and really, there’s no reason for Niall to have to wonder why Harry fell in love with the woman. If she is as beautiful inside as she is on the outside, Niall doesn’t blame Harry at all.

And she isn’t beautiful in the way that society and its ever-ignorant band of twats has decided, either. She’s not slim and she’s not blonde; her skin isn’t clear and her style isn’t extraordinary and she isn’t somebody whose beauty would stop you on the street. She’s simple, and it’s that simple elegance that captivates Niall.

“It’s good to see you again!” she exclaims, a bit loud, and her voice is deep, twangy with that southern accent that reminds Niall of Connor’s when they first met. Connor stands and meets Brooks halfway in a hug, and their movements, a rush of air, has caused Harry’s scent to waft up around him like a cloud of innocent desire.

Against his better judgement, he takes his eyes off of Connor and Brooks and turns to Harry. And Harry’s already looking at him with a wide-eyed, expectant and curious expression on his face. His eyes are green, kind of like the lakes in New York he studied last summer to determine what needed to be done about the growth of algae. Niall’s sure they’re mirroring each other, all flustered and red and hot.

“Hi, Niall.”

Niall forces back the urge to lick his lips, forces back the urge to stare at Harry’s mouth. “Hi, Harry.” He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know if he can say anything ― but, Lord help him, _Lord help him_ , he likes the way Harry’s mouth curls as it forms words and he wants to keep Harry talking forever. “How ― how are you? How’s your morning?”

Harry blushes (Niall thinks he does, at least, and then he kind of blushes, too, but he reckons the both of them can blame their sudden redness on the heat and humidity inside of the chapel).

“It’s… it’s good.” Harry smiles, a little tilt of his lips. Niall’s heart flutters and he thinks of the unsteady, unused wings of a butterfly right after it breaks free of its cocoon: so desperate, so sloppy and uncoordinated but full of bravery and a will to accomplish. “It’s better now, though.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas. xxx


	4. four | niall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are any "m's" missing, it's because my laptop is getting old :/

An hour and a half later, the service concludes and Niall’s body is on fire. He stands, much too quickly, and his head becomes light and swims around for a moment, but he welcomes the abrupt dizziness because it doesn’t leave him feeling empty and dirty and unworthy as he did when he was sat beside Harry, pressed against Harry, smelling Harry.

He squares his shoulders, draws in a deep breath and forces his heart to stop fluttering, forces his skin to stop throbbing, forces his mind to stop straying.

Connor stands, and he reaches for Connor’s hand, intertwines their fingers; he isn’t afraid of the subtle movements of a public display of affection ― and really, maybe this will serve as a reminder to his cheating mind that he is already with somebody that he truly and sincerely loves so, so dearly.

“That was a heavenly service, don’t you agree?” Connor’s mother, Agatha, speaks, and she isn’t talking to anyone in particular, really, so Niall inserts himself in order to distract his wandering mind.

“It really was,” he replies, hoping she can’t see through his thin recall of what was said. He truly wasn’t paying much attention, if any at all ― the time that was supposed to be spent praising and worshipping the Lord was instead wasted praising and worshipping Harry. Baptizing the image he has created of Harry with Connor’s stories in salacious and desire-filled daydreams are apparently a very effective way of wasting time.

But really, was it wasted? Was it? He feels unclean, but ― but at the same time, he feels refreshed and rejuvenated and more real now than he has in a long, long time. He feels breathless, weightless, limitless ― and all of this because he was dreaming about taking Harry for an intimate, private, erotic swim in the forest where nobody can hear them come together.

Niall starts and shakes his head, hard. It doesn’t rid his mind of the images, doesn’t rid his body of the ghost sensation of being touched, and he doesn’t really think it’s appropriate to get a boner in the chapel of a church.

“How are you liking Louisiana so far, Niall?” Agatha’s husband, Richard, asks as he stands. He’s a tall man, built like a brick wall with a heart of gold and a smile that could settle even your biggest worries. “It takes some time to get used to, that’s for sure, but I hope you’re coming to like it.”

Niall smiles, and it’s real, too, and it isn’t faked, either. “I like it. It’s different, from the city. And from Ireland, too. People are nice here, and there’s always something to do if you’re ever bored, too.” His smile turns into a grin, a toothy grin. “I really like it.”

Richard nods, smiles. “I’m glad, son,” he says, claps Niall on the back; it’s hard, a bit, and Niall feels the sting his hand leaves behind but he doesn’t say anything. “And I hear that you’ve been making friends, too, eh?”

Niall frowns. “I ―”

“Connor told us that the two of you ran into Harry at the pool yesterday,” Richard announces, cuts Niall off; the sound of Harry’s name coming out of somebody’s mouth reminds him of the amount of times he’s spoken Harry’s name, both to Connor and in his mind, in the limited time they’ve been in the town. “He’s a nice man, isn’t he?”

“He is ―”

“Are you talking about me, Richard?” a man ― Harry; of course it’s Harry, it’s always Harry ― says behind him. Niall can feel his presence: he’s tall, he’s big, he’s heavy, he’s hot, he’s hard. “I hope it’s only good things. Wouldn’t want the town to know that I’m a bad boy, would we?”

Niall turns absolutely red and he’s so, so happy that Richard’s more occupied with Harry than he is with the expression on the face of his son’s boyfriend.

“Oh, Harry, you know I’m a sucker for flattery,” Richard begins, reaching around Niall for  Harry’s hand; they clasp hands, shake hands, and Niall is sandwiched between the man he wants to fuck and the father of the man he currently is fucking right now. In a church. What a wonderful situation to be in. “And you, my dear boy, are a charmer.”

Harry moves to greet Richard with a hug, and in doing so brushes his shoulder accidentally against Niall’s. Heat waves of utter desire and pleasure erupt on the layers of Niall’s skin and spreads, and he’s burning from the inside out, sweating, and he turns, pivots on his heel as Harry and Richard enter a conversation, and he puts his head down, begins to make his way out of the aisle of the pew because he can’t take it, can’t take it, can’t take it.

And then he runs into somebody, knocks into somebody. It’s a woman, and she smells like strawberries and vanilla, and Niall looks up and it’s Brooks.

_Of course. Of course it’s Brooks._

She smiles, and there’s a little gap between her two front teeth. “Hi,” she says, raises her arm in a quick way; she’s kind of awkward, kind of strange, but her smile is real and her eyes are gentle, kind, open. “I’m Brooks, Harry’s wife. He and I went to school with Connor.”

Niall smiles and prays to God that this woman can’t read minds. “I know about you. I’m Niall.” He reaches to take her hand, and to his complete surprise, she pulls him in for a hug; she’s soft, supple, so warm, and Niall returns the embrace respectfully, if a bit squeamish and confused.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” she says into his neck, breathy and sweet. She pulls back, still smiling up at him; he likes her eyes, likes the way they shine. “Harry met you yesterday, and he couldn’t stop talking about you all night.” Her grin gets bigger and Niall’s stomach turns in fear, in joy. “I think he’s rather taken with you.”

Niall blinks. And blinks again. “You ― you _think_ so?”

She nods, laughs, and it’s a nice sound. Very pleasant.

“Of course I do! He’s borderline a hermit, and I love when he ventures out of the house with the boys and meets new people. I love it when he makes new friends.”

“Oh.” Niall lets out a breath of relief. “Friends. Friends, of course.” He thought he was caught ― and caught for what, he doesn’t know. He has done anything, and neither has Harry. Yet, that is. “He’s a ― he’s a cool guy.”

The fondness she has for her husband is palpable in the air, just as easily seen in the atmosphere as it is on her face.

“He really is, isn’t he?” She smiles. “We’re going to see you at Agatha’s for her party, aren’t we?”

Niall swallows. “Yes, you are.” It’s hot in here yet again, and this time it’s a smothering heat that makes his skin itch. He feels like Brooks can see right through him. “Connor and I are riding over with Richard and Agatha as soon as we leave.”

“Oh no, you two are not riding with me.”

Niall turns once again, sees that Agatha has the twins on both of her hips; they’re grinning, giggling, kissing her on the cheeks. They seem to care for the older woman as if she were their grandmother, and Niall has to wonder, though it damn sure isn’t any of his business, just where Harry and Brooks’ parents are.

“These two hoodlums and Mayla are riding with Richard and I,” she speaks, and it’s to both Niall and Brooks. “Brooks, I don’t imagine it’s too big of a hassle to stick Connor, Jackson and Niall in the vehicle with you.”

Brooks smiles, beams, and Niall kind of wants to pull his hair out because the thought of being locked in a vehicle with Connor, with Brooks, with Harry has his anxiety and emotions in a whirlwind fight for dominance.

“Agatha, I don’t think ―”

“That’s a lovely idea,” Connor announces his presence with them by saying, and Niall’s body tenses, tightens as Connor slings his arm around Niall’s shoulders. “Putting the three best pals from high school in the same vehicle after years of being apart sounds like a magnificent plan.”

“Sounds a bit cramped to me,” another voice rings in, and Niall looks over his shoulder, sees that Harry is apparently just as against this plan of action as he is. “And we’ve already got the car seats strapped in the truck, too.”

“It won’t take long to move them to Agatha’s car, Harry,” Brooks says, and her brows are knit, just a bit. “I’ll go get them moved now, in fact. Connor, would you like to come help?”

Connor places a gentle, quick kiss to the side of Niall’s face and bounds off after Brooks, two beautiful, sweet creatures walking away who definitely don’t deserve to have anything horrible happen to them.

“I’ll take these two out there and get them buckled in.” Agatha puts both Ellison and Rhiannon on the ground, grabs both of their hands, and begins to walk toward the exit. Mayla follows, and Richard says something to the preacher before both he and Jackson, Connor’s older brother, follow after the woman.

The only two who are left are Niall and Harry, and Niall isn’t sure what to think.

He turns to Harry, and Harry’s already looking at him with a soft, sweet smile on his face.

“I hope you’re liking the town so far, Niall,” Harry says, polite and agreeable, decent. “It’s probably so different from New York City, but this little piece of paradise has its own unique charm.” He smiles, complaisantly. “It’s a great place to drop down and build a home, I think.”

Niall isn’t sure what Harry’s trying to do, whether he’s trying to remind Niall or himself that he has a wife, that he has two kids, that he has a family, that he has a life outside of Niall.

“It reminds me of Mullingar, kind of.”

Harry raises a brow. “Mullingar?”

“It’s where I’m from.” Niall laughs a bit, smiles a bit. “It’s small, full of forests and lakes. And everybody knows each other, too. This place just feels like an extension of Mullingar, sort of. With the additive of southern charm, that is.”

Harry chuckles, lightly. “S’like Cheshire, then, a bit, isn’t it?” he muses, can’t wipe the smile off of his face. “It’s where I’m from, before my stepdad died and we picked up and moved all the way out here. It was warm and homey, too, no matter how much snow blanketed the ground in the winter. It was nice.”

“Do you miss it?”

“I miss my mum. She went back a few years ago.” Harry’s lips thin. “I don’t miss the town, though. There’s nothing left for me there. I’d much rather stay here for the rest of my life, I think.”

“You haven’t seen much of the world, then, have you?”

Harry shrugs, smirks. “I’ve seen enough to know what I like and don’t like, and I quite like where I am right now.”

“I admire that.”

“What?”

“I admire that you don’t feel the need to chase after something.”

Harry just shakes his head, smiles even though he’s looking at the ground and Niall has to angle his head to see the beautiful moment. “I never said I don’t feel that need,” he replies, takes a step closer; they’re in each other’s atmosphere now and Niall isn’t sure how he feels, isn’t sure if he’s allowed to feel. He just hopes that he isn’t the only one feeling ― or trying not to feel, too. “That need to just go, and see and do. I feel it. In fact, I feel it right now.” He stops, breathes; they’re close, too close. “I just don’t chase after it.”

Niall swallows, feels like he’s been doing that a lot lately ― swallowing down his fear, swallowing down his desperation, swallowing down his humiliation, swallowing down every single bit of foreign emotion that he feels. He isn’t sure what Harry’s trying to tell him, isn’t sure if he needs to look further into the inclination that there is something deeper in Harry’s words, but he is sure of one thing and that is that Harry is one man he wants to know. In whatever way is allowed.

“Harry! Niall!”

Both men look in the direction of their names, and they see Brooks and Connor standing in the entryway of the chapel, waving at them to follow after them. Niall steels himself and feels Harry physically gather whatever it is that he let loose, squaring his shoulders and relaxing his face, and they slowly, slowly detach themselves from one another atmospheres and go to their significant others.

Which is proper and right, you know. They’re both tied down ― that not being brought up in a negative sense, either ― and they very well can’t afford to go off half-cocked and chase after something when, by all accounts, they already have everything.

-

When they arrive at Agatha and Richard’s house after an incessantly tempting and hot, humid drive, full of nightmares in the haughtiest sense, Niall hurriedly makes his way out of the backseat of the truck after Jackson hops on the ground and darts toward the house, bounding up the stoop and through the door and ascending the stairs. He was riding in the middle, Jackson on his right and Harry on his left, and he feels a strange mix of hot and cold, sweaty and chilled, and he can’t properly breathe and needs to be alone for a moment.

His mind is in a mess and his heart isn’t fairing much better, either; Harry spoke a minimal amount in the backseat, allowed Brooks and Connor and Jackson to do all the talking, and while the latter, Jackson, is rather moody and brooding, he contributed an immense amount to the discussion pertaining to the age old question: is water wet?

(Also, for the record ― no, water is not wet. Wet is an adjective that describes something when it is damp; water in and of itself cannot be damp, therefore it is not wet.)

(The only reason Niall knows that is because of a viral video floating around every social media platform at the moment. He thinks it’s quite informative, and definitely hilarious and enjoyable to watch. He wishes he knew the man so he could thank him.)

(But anyway.)

The bathroom is at the very top of the stairs; the house is old, built a hundred or so years ago, and modeled after a particularly extravagant plantation home. There are plenty of bathrooms ― five, as well as seven bedrooms, each having their own pattern and color scheme ― and it smells like ancient dust and secrets. Niall wishes walls could talk so he could know just what went on in this townhouse of sorts.

He rushes into the bathroom, shuts the door, turns the lock, leans against the sturdy surface and begins to silently panic as the noon sunlight filters through the daisy-colored drapes. He’s breathing heavy and isn’t quite sure why ― doesn’t know if it’s Harry, if it’s the thought of anyone finding out about the hellacious thoughts he’s having about Harry. His fingers feel full of electricity, too, as if he’s a bolt of lightning just waiting to strike across the sky and deliver a thunderous noise that rattles the thin glass of the window that the sun is shining through beneath the flowered drapes.

And then he remembers that he isn’t a child anymore, knows effective ways to calm himself down, and he does just that: he moves forward, puts his hands, palm down, on the marble countertop of the sink and taps his fingers, one at a time, starting with the left hand and then going to the right, counting five to one and then one to five: five, four, three, two, one, one, two, three, four, five, over and over and over until he’s breathing steady and he doesn’t feel fuzzy and heated with emotion.

This used to happen often. He’s an emotional guy, and being in an oppressive environment like he was when he was younger taught him that he had to learn to take care of himself, and he did. He learned. Without help.

The counting method helps stabilize his erratic brain and forces him to focus on the solidity of the numbers; the steady pressure of the countertop pushing back against his palms just as hard as he is pressing down is, in a way, akin to applying pressure to a bleeding wound; going from five to one and one to five helps align his breathing and pulse.

He didn’t have anyone to offer him assistance as a child transitioning into a young man; he had to learn from a young age to look out for himself, and he did. He has. And he is. Looking out for himself, that is, because, in the end, people will leave. That, he knows for sure. And there’s not a goddamn thing you can do to make them stay.

“Get a grip, Horan,” he mumbles to himself, shaking his head to dislodge the thoughts from the past that are plaguing the future he sees for himself. He turns the faucet on and cups a handful of cold, icy water and splashes it on his face; it burns in the same way that bitter chill does and he inhales sharply, grabbing for the hand towel that’s hung up on a rack, smacking around until he’s got it. “You’ve seen handsome men before and didn’t act a fool in front of them. There is no need for this man to get the better of you right now.”

The half-assed pep talk didn’t do anything to soothe the picture of Harry, sprawled and smiling and sticky, he has in his mind; he sighs, wipes his face rather hard one last time, and then tosses the towel in the bin for dirty laundry and pilfers through the cupboards till he finds a replacement. He can’t very well leave the bathroom in a mess.

He takes one last, long breath and unlocks the door, opens the door, steps out of the door ― and then strides right into a broad shoulder, a strong chest, and he knows who it is by the smell of the man without even having to look up.

_Harry._

Niall looks up anyway, just to quench his thirst, and sees that Harry is smiling at him secretively, sassily, and he swallows, hard, because he is not immune to this kind of situation no matter how horribly he wishes he was.

“Harry?”

“I’m not the handsome man you were talking to yourself about, am I?”

Niall blushes pink, dark pink, red, dark red, and he knows that he’s given himself away without even saying a damn word.

**Author's Note:**

> Um, coming soon? Any and all questions (and rants) can be sent to [my tumblr](http://thoseguitarists.tumblr.com/) where I will gladly cry with you.


End file.
